FROM CINCINNATI TO LOUISVILLE IN ANOTHER WESTERN STEAMBOAT; AND FROM
LOUISVILLE TO ST. LOUIS IN ANOTHER. ST. LOUIS
LEAVING Cincinnati at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, we embarked for
Louisville in the Pike steamboat, which, carrying the mails, was a packet
of a much better class than that in which we had come from Pittsburg. As
this passage does not occupy more than twelve or thirteen hours, we
arranged to go ashore that night: not coveting the distinction of
sleeping in a state-room, when it was possible to sleep anywhere else.
There chanced to be on board this boat, in addition to the usual dreary
crowd of passengers, one Pitchlynn, a chief of the Choctaw tribe of
Indians, who _sent in his card_ to me, and with whom I had the pleasure
of a long conversation.
He spoke English perfectly well, though he had not begun to learn the
language, he told me, until he was a young man grown. He had read many
books; and Scott’s poetry appeared to have left a strong impression on
his mind: especially the opening of The Lady of the Lake, and the great
battle scene in Marmion, in which, no doubt from the congeniality of the
subjects to his own pursuits and tastes, he had great interest and
delight. He appeared to understand correctly all he had read; and
whatever fiction had enlisted his sympathy in its belief, had done so
keenly and earnestly. I might almost say fiercely. He was dressed in
our ordinary everyday costume, which hung about his fine figure loosely,
and with indifferent grace. On my telling him that I regretted not to
see him in his own attire, he threw up his right arm, for a moment, as
though he were brandishing some heavy weapon, and answered, as he let it
fall again, that his race were losing many things besides their dress,
and would soon be seen upon the earth no more: but he wore it at home, he
added proudly.
He told me that he had been away from his home, west of the Mississippi,
seventeen months: and was now returning. He had been chiefly at
Washington on some negotiations pending between his Tribe and the
Government: which were not settled yet (he said in a melancholy way), and
he feared never would be: for what could a few poor Indians do, against
such well-skilled men of business as the whites? He had no love for
Washington; tired of towns and cities very soon; and longed for the
Forest and the Prairie.
I asked him what he thought of Congress? He answered, with a smile, that
it wanted dignity, in an Indian’s eyes.
He would very much like, he said, to see England before he died; and
spoke with much interest about the great things to be seen there. When I
told him of that chamber in the British Museum wherein are preserved
household memorials of a race that ceased to be, thousands of years ago,
he was very attentive, and it was not hard to see that he had a reference
in his mind to the gradual fading away of his own people.
This led us to speak of Mr. Catlin’s gallery, which he praised highly:
observing that his own portrait was among the collection, and that all
the likenesses were ‘elegant.’ Mr. Cooper, he said, had painted the Red
Man well; and so would I, he knew, if I would go home with him and hunt
buffaloes, which he was quite anxious I should do. When I told him that
supposing I went, I should not be very likely to damage the buffaloes
much, he took it as a great joke and laughed heartily.
He was a remarkably handsome man; some years past forty, I should judge;
with long black hair, an aquiline nose, broad cheek-bones, a sunburnt
complexion, and a very bright, keen, dark, and piercing eye. There were
but twenty thousand of the Choctaws left, he said, and their number was
decreasing every day. A few of his brother chiefs had been obliged to
become civilised, and to make themselves acquainted with what the whites
knew, for it was their only chance of existence. But they were not many;
and the rest were as they always had been. He dwelt on this: and said
several times that unless they tried to assimilate themselves to their
conquerors, they must be swept away before the strides of civilised
society.
When we shook hands at parting, I told him he must come to England, as he
longed to see the land so much: that I should hope to see him there, one
day: and that I could promise him he would be well received and kindly
treated. He was evidently pleased by this assurance, though he rejoined
with a good-humoured smile and an arch shake of his head, that the
English used to be very fond of the Red Men when they wanted their help,
but had not cared much for them, since.
He took his leave; as stately and complete a gentleman of Nature’s
making, as ever I beheld; and moved among the people in the boat, another
kind of being. He sent me a lithographed portrait of himself soon
afterwards; very like, though scarcely handsome enough; which I have
carefully preserved in memory of our brief acquaintance.
There was nothing very interesting in the scenery of this day’s journey,
which brought us at midnight to Louisville. We slept at the Galt House;
a splendid hotel; and were as handsomely lodged as though we had been in
Paris, rather than hundreds of miles beyond the Alleghanies.
The city presenting no objects of sufficient interest to detain us on our
way, we resolved to proceed next day by another steamboat, the Fulton,
and to join it, about noon, at a suburb called Portland, where it would
be delayed some time in passing through a canal.
The interval, after breakfast, we devoted to riding through the town,
which is regular and cheerful: the streets being laid out at right
angles, and planted with young trees. The buildings are smoky and
blackened, from the use of bituminous coal, but an Englishman is well
used to that appearance, and indisposed to quarrel with it. There did
not appear to be much business stirring; and some unfinished buildings
and improvements seemed to intimate that the city had been overbuilt in
the ardour of ‘going-a-head,’ and was suffering under the re-action
consequent upon such feverish forcing of its powers.
On our way to Portland, we passed a ‘Magistrate’s office,’ which amused
me, as looking far more like a dame school than any police establishment:
for this awful Institution was nothing but a little lazy,
good-for-nothing front parlour, open to the street; wherein two or three
figures (I presume the magistrate and his myrmidons) were basking in the
sunshine, the very effigies of languor and repose. It was a perfect
picture of justice retired from business for want of customers; her sword
and scales sold off; napping comfortably with her legs upon the table.
Here, as elsewhere in these parts, the road was perfectly alive with pigs
of all ages; lying about in every direction, fast asleep.; or grunting
along in quest of hidden dainties. I had always a sneaking kindness for
these odd animals, and found a constant source of amusement, when all
others failed, in watching their proceedings. As we were riding along
this morning, I observed a little incident between two youthful pigs,
which was so very human as to be inexpressibly comical and grotesque at
the time, though I dare say, in telling, it is tame enough.
One young gentleman (a very delicate porker with several straws sticking
about his nose, betokening recent investigations in a dung-hill) was
walking deliberately on, profoundly thinking, when suddenly his brother,
who was lying in a miry hole unseen by him, rose up immediately before
his startled eyes, ghostly with damp mud. Never was pig’s whole mass of
blood so turned. He started back at least three feet, gazed for a
moment, and then shot off as hard as he could go: his excessively little
tail vibrating with speed and terror like a distracted pendulum. But
before he had gone very far, he began to reason with himself as to the
nature of this frightful appearance; and as he reasoned, he relaxed his
speed by gradual degrees; until at last he stopped, and faced about.
There was his brother, with the mud upon him glazing in the sun, yet
staring out of the very same hole, perfectly amazed at his proceedings!
He was no sooner assured of this; and he assured himself so carefully
that one may almost say he shaded his eyes with his hand to see the
better; than he came back at a round trot, pounced upon him, and
summarily took off a piece of his tail; as a caution to him to be careful
what he was about for the future, and never to play tricks with his
family any more.
We found the steamboat in the canal, waiting for the slow process of
getting through the lock, and went on board, where we shortly afterwards
had a new kind of visitor in the person of a certain Kentucky Giant whose
name is Porter, and who is of the moderate height of seven feet eight
inches, in his stockings.
There never was a race of people who so completely gave the lie to
history as these giants, or whom all the chroniclers have so cruelly
libelled. Instead of roaring and ravaging about the world, constantly
catering for their cannibal larders, and perpetually going to market in
an unlawful manner, they are the meekest people in any man’s
acquaintance: rather inclining to milk and vegetable diet, and bearing
anything for a quiet life. So decidedly are amiability and mildness
their characteristics, that I confess I look upon that youth who
distinguished himself by the slaughter of these inoffensive persons, as a
false-hearted brigand, who, pretending to philanthropic motives, was
secretly influenced only by the wealth stored up within their castles,
and the hope of plunder. And I lean the more to this opinion from
finding that even the historian of those exploits, with all his
partiality for his hero, is fain to admit that the slaughtered monsters
in question were of a very innocent and simple turn; extremely guileless
and ready of belief; lending a credulous ear to the most improbable
tales; suffering themselves to be easily entrapped into pits; and even
(as in the case of the Welsh Giant) with an excess of the hospitable
politeness of a landlord, ripping themselves open, rather than hint at
the possibility of their guests being versed in the vagabond arts of
sleight-of-hand and hocus-pocus.
The Kentucky Giant was but another illustration of the truth of this
position. He had a weakness in the region of the knees, and a
trustfulness in his long face, which appealed even to five-feet nine for
encouragement and support. He was only twenty-five years old, he said,
and had grown recently, for it had been found necessary to make an
addition to the legs of his inexpressibles. At fifteen he was a short
boy, and in those days his English father and his Irish mother had rather
snubbed him, as being too small of stature to sustain the credit of the
family. He added that his health had not been good, though it was better
now; but short people are not wanting who whisper that he drinks too
hard.
I understand he drives a hackney-coach, though how he does it, unless he
stands on the footboard behind, and lies along the roof upon his chest,
with his chin in the box, it would be difficult to comprehend. He
brought his gun with him, as a curiosity.
Christened ‘The Little Rifle,’ and displayed outside a shop-window, it
would make the fortune of any retail business in Holborn. When he had
shown himself and talked a little while, he withdrew with his
pocket-instrument, and went bobbing down the cabin, among men of six feet
high and upwards, like a light-house walking among lamp-posts.
Within a few minutes afterwards, we were out of the canal, and in the
Ohio river again.
The arrangements of the boat were like those of the Messenger, and the
passengers were of the same order of people. We fed at the same times,
on the same kind of viands, in the same dull manner, and with the same
observances. The company appeared to be oppressed by the same tremendous
concealments, and had as little capacity of enjoyment or
light-heartedness. I never in my life did see such listless, heavy
dulness as brooded over these meals: the very recollection of it weighs
me down, and makes me, for the moment, wretched. Reading and writing on
my knee, in our little cabin, I really dreaded the coming of the hour
that summoned us to table; and was as glad to escape from it again, as if
it had been a penance or a punishment. Healthy cheerfulness and good
spirits forming a part of the banquet, I could soak my crusts in the
fountain with Le Sage’s strolling player, and revel in their glad
enjoyment: but sitting down with so many fellow-animals to ward off
thirst and hunger as a business; to empty, each creature, his Yahoo’s
trough as quickly as he can, and then slink sullenly away; to have these
social sacraments stripped of everything but the mere greedy satisfaction
of the natural cravings; goes so against the grain with me, that I
seriously believe the recollection of these funeral feasts will be a
waking nightmare to me all my life.
There was some relief in this boat, too, which there had not been in the
other, for the captain (a blunt, good-natured fellow) had his handsome
wife with him, who was disposed to be lively and agreeable, as were a few
other lady-passengers who had their seats about us at the same end of the
table. But nothing could have made head against the depressing influence
of the general body. There was a magnetism of dulness in them which
would have beaten down the most facetious companion that the earth ever
knew. A jest would have been a crime, and a smile would have faded into
a grinning horror. Such deadly, leaden people; such systematic plodding,
weary, insupportable heaviness; such a mass of animated indigestion in
respect of all that was genial, jovial, frank, social, or hearty; never,
sure, was brought together elsewhere since the world began.
Nor was the scenery, as we approached the junction of the Ohio and
Mississippi rivers, at all inspiriting in its influence. The trees were
stunted in their growth; the banks were low and flat; the settlements and
log cabins fewer in number: their inhabitants more wan and wretched than
any we had encountered yet. No songs of birds were in the air, no
pleasant scents, no moving lights and shadows from swift passing clouds.
Hour after hour, the changeless glare of the hot, unwinking sky, shone
upon the same monotonous objects. Hour after hour, the river rolled
along, as wearily and slowly as the time itself.
At length, upon the morning of the third day, we arrived at a spot so
much more desolate than any we had yet beheld, that the forlornest places
we had passed, were, in comparison with it, full of interest. At the
junction of the two rivers, on ground so flat and low and marshy, that at
certain seasons of the year it is inundated to the house-tops, lies a
breeding-place of fever, ague, and death; vaunted in England as a mine of
Golden Hope, and speculated in, on the faith of monstrous
representations, to many people’s ruin. A dismal swamp, on which the
half-built houses rot away: cleared here and there for the space of a few
yards; and teeming, then, with rank unwholesome vegetation, in whose
baleful shade the wretched wanderers who are tempted hither, droop, and
die, and lay their bones; the hateful Mississippi circling and eddying
before it, and turning off upon its southern course a slimy monster
hideous to behold; a hotbed of disease, an ugly sepulchre, a grave
uncheered by any gleam of promise: a place without one single quality, in
earth or air or water, to commend it: such is this dismal Cairo.
But what words shall describe the Mississippi, great father of rivers,
who (praise be to Heaven) has no young children like him! An enormous
ditch, sometimes two or three miles wide, running liquid mud, six miles
an hour: its strong and frothy current choked and obstructed everywhere
by huge logs and whole forest trees: now twining themselves together in
great rafts, from the interstices of which a sedgy, lazy foam works up,
to float upon the water’s top; now rolling past like monstrous bodies,
their tangled roots showing like matted hair; now glancing singly by like
giant leeches; and now writhing round and round in the vortex of some
small whirlpool, like wounded snakes. The banks low, the trees dwarfish,
the marshes swarming with frogs, the wretched cabins few and far apart,
their inmates hollow-cheeked and pale, the weather very hot, mosquitoes
penetrating into every crack and crevice of the boat, mud and slime on
everything: nothing pleasant in its aspect, but the harmless lightning
which flickers every night upon the dark horizon.
For two days we toiled up this foul stream, striking constantly against
the floating timber, or stopping to avoid those more dangerous obstacles,
the snags, or sawyers, which are the hidden trunks of trees that have
their roots below the tide. When the nights are very dark, the look-out
stationed in the head of the boat, knows by the ripple of the water if
any great impediment be near at hand, and rings a bell beside him, which
is the signal for the engine to be stopped: but always in the night this
bell has work to do, and after every ring, there comes a blow which
renders it no easy matter to remain in bed.
The decline of day here was very gorgeous; tingeing the firmament deeply
with red and gold, up to the very keystone of the arch above us. As the
sun went down behind the bank, the slightest blades of grass upon it
seemed to become as distinctly visible as the arteries in the skeleton of
a leaf; and when, as it slowly sank, the red and golden bars upon the
water grew dimmer, and dimmer yet, as if they were sinking too; and all
the glowing colours of departing day paled, inch by inch, before the
sombre night; the scene became a thousand times more lonesome and more
dreary than before, and all its influences darkened with the sky.
We drank the muddy water of this river while we were upon it. It is
considered wholesome by the natives, and is something more opaque than
gruel. I have seen water like it at the Filter-shops, but nowhere else.
On the fourth night after leaving Louisville, we reached St. Louis, and
here I witnessed the conclusion of an incident, trifling enough in
itself, but very pleasant to see, which had interested me during the
whole journey.
There was a little woman on board, with a little baby; and both little
woman and little child were cheerful, good-looking, bright-eyed, and fair
to see. The little woman had been passing a long time with her sick
mother in New York, and had left her home in St. Louis, in that condition
in which ladies who truly love their lords desire to be. The baby was
born in her mother’s house; and she had not seen her husband (to whom she
was now returning), for twelve months: having left him a month or two
after their marriage.
[Picture: The Little Wife]
Well, to be sure, there never was a little woman so full of hope, and
tenderness, and love, and anxiety, as this little woman was: and all day
long she wondered whether ‘He’ would be at the wharf; and whether ‘He’
had got her letter; and whether, if she sent the baby ashore by somebody
else, ‘He’ would know it, meeting it in the street: which, seeing that he
had never set eyes upon it in his life, was not very likely in the
abstract, but was probable enough, to the young mother. She was such an
artless little creature; and was in such a sunny, beaming, hopeful state;
and let out all this matter clinging close about her heart, so freely;
that all the other lady passengers entered into the spirit of it as much
as she; and the captain (who heard all about it from his wife) was
wondrous sly, I promise you: inquiring, every time we met at table, as in
forgetfulness, whether she expected anybody to meet her at St. Louis, and
whether she would want to go ashore the night we reached it (but he
supposed she wouldn’t), and cutting many other dry jokes of that nature.
There was one little weazen, dried-apple-faced old woman, who took
occasion to doubt the constancy of husbands in such circumstances of
bereavement; and there was another lady (with a lap-dog) old enough to
moralize on the lightness of human affections, and yet not so old that
she could help nursing the baby, now and then, or laughing with the rest,
when the little woman called it by its father’s name, and asked it all
manner of fantastic questions concerning him in the joy of her heart.
It was something of a blow to the little woman, that when we were within
twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly necessary to put this
baby to bed. But she got over it with the same good humour; tied a
handkerchief round her head; and came out into the little gallery with
the rest. Then, such an oracle as she became in reference to the
localities! and such facetiousness as was displayed by the married
ladies! and such sympathy as was shown by the single ones! and such peals
of laughter as the little woman herself (who would just as soon have
cried) greeted every jest with!
At last, there were the lights of St. Louis, and here was the wharf, and
those were the steps: and the little woman covering her face with her
hands, and laughing (or seeming to laugh) more than ever, ran into her
own cabin, and shut herself up. I have no doubt that in the charming
inconsistency of such excitement, she stopped her ears, lest she should
hear ‘Him’ asking for her: but I did not see her do it.
Then, a great crowd of people rushed on board, though the boat was not
yet made fast, but was wandering about, among the other boats, to find a
landing-place: and everybody looked for the husband: and nobody saw him:
when, in the midst of us all—Heaven knows how she ever got there—there
was the little woman clinging with both arms tight round the neck of a
fine, good-looking, sturdy young fellow! and in a moment afterwards,
there she was again, actually clapping her little hands for joy, as she
dragged him through the small door of her small cabin, to look at the
baby as he lay asleep!
We went to a large hotel, called the Planter’s House: built like an
English hospital, with long passages and bare walls, and sky-lights above
the room-doors for the free circulation of air. There were a great many
boarders in it; and as many lights sparkled and glistened from the
windows down into the street below, when we drove up, as if it had been
illuminated on some occasion of rejoicing. It is an excellent house, and
the proprietors have most bountiful notions of providing the creature
comforts. Dining alone with my wife in our own room, one day, I counted
fourteen dishes on the table at once.
In the old French portion of the town, the thoroughfares are narrow and
crooked, and some of the houses are very quaint and picturesque: being
built of wood, with tumble-down galleries before the windows,
approachable by stairs or rather ladders from the street. There are
queer little barbers’ shops and drinking-houses too, in this quarter; and
abundance of crazy old tenements with blinking casements, such as may be
seen in Flanders. Some of these ancient habitations, with high garret
gable-windows perking into the roofs, have a kind of French shrug about
them; and being lop-sided with age, appear to hold their heads askew,
besides, as if they were grimacing in astonishment at the American
Improvements.
It is hardly necessary to say, that these consist of wharfs and
warehouses, and new buildings in all directions; and of a great many vast
plans which are still ‘progressing.’ Already, however, some very good
houses, broad streets, and marble-fronted shops, have gone so far ahead
as to be in a state of completion; and the town bids fair in a few years
to improve considerably: though it is not likely ever to vie, in point of
elegance or beauty, with Cincinnati.
The Roman Catholic religion, introduced here by the early French
settlers, prevails extensively. Among the public institutions are a
Jesuit college; a convent for ‘the Ladies of the Sacred Heart;’ and a
large chapel attached to the college, which was in course of erection at
the time of my visit, and was intended to be consecrated on the second of
December in the next year. The architect of this building, is one of the
reverend fathers of the school, and the works proceed under his sole
direction. The organ will be sent from Belgium.
In addition to these establishments, there is a Roman Catholic cathedral,
dedicated to Saint Francis Xavier; and a hospital, founded by the
munificence of a deceased resident, who was a member of that church. It
also sends missionaries from hence among the Indian tribes.
The Unitarian church is represented, in this remote place, as in most
other parts of America, by a gentleman of great worth and excellence.
The poor have good reason to remember and bless it; for it befriends
them, and aids the cause of rational education, without any sectarian or
selfish views. It is liberal in all its actions; of kind construction;
and of wide benevolence.
There are three free-schools already erected, and in full operation in
this city. A fourth is building, and will soon be opened.
No man ever admits the unhealthiness of the place he dwells in (unless he
is going away from it), and I shall therefore, I have no doubt, be at
issue with the inhabitants of St. Louis, in questioning the perfect
salubrity of its climate, and in hinting that I think it must rather
dispose to fever, in the summer and autumnal seasons. Just adding, that
it is very hot, lies among great rivers, and has vast tracts of undrained
swampy land around it, I leave the reader to form his own opinion.
As I had a great desire to see a Prairie before turning back from the
furthest point of my wanderings; and as some gentlemen of the town had,
in their hospitable consideration, an equal desire to gratify me; a day
was fixed, before my departure, for an expedition to the Looking-Glass
Prairie, which is within thirty miles of the town. Deeming it possible
that my readers may not object to know what kind of thing such a gipsy
party may be at that distance from home, and among what sort of objects
it moves, I will describe the jaunt in another chapter.